


A Matter of Education

by Nilladriel



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Mansion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilladriel/pseuds/Nilladriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Erik have a minor disagreement about the children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Education

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sandoz_iscariot](http://sandoz_iscariot) for the [Secret Mutant Exchange](http://secret-mutant.livejournal.com)

It was raining, and rather heavily. Thunder boomed. Ororo was refusing to go to bed again.

"One of us should probably do something about the storm," Charles said. Lightning flashed, a split-second of white light and long, reaching shadows. He curled his hand around Erik's, thumb running idly over gun calluses.

"I agree. _You_ ," Erik said, "should do something about her tantrum."

Neither of them moved to get up from the bed. Charles took a deep breath. "It doesn't have to be me. I really think if you just speak with her--"

"Charles." Erik's voice was harsh. "Drop it."

Charles' fingertips ghosted over the lines of Erik's palm. He bit his lip, considered his words and decided, finally, on a neutral "Good night."

"Good night," Erik said. He tugged his hand from Charles' and turned on his side.

-

When Charles woke up, Erik's side of the bed was empty.

It was ridiculous to feel annoyed: Erik was an early riser. Charles was not. And there were plenty of other reasons for Erik to be--well, _not here_. Erik was not a man who ran from arguments. Except, apparently, when he was.

It took Charles an hour to get ready. Not a record, but not absolutely terrible, either. He was improving.

The hallways of the mansion seemed oddly empty. It was a Saturday. Anything breakable was slowly migrating to a storeroom, an initiative started by a guilty-faced Sean. Circular marks delineated where vases had once stood, and there were empty stretches of walls once filled by paintings.

The kitchen, however, was as cluttered as ever. Raven and Hank were at the breakfast nook, seated on opposite sides of a table littered with the remnants of a meal. Hank was staring down at his diagrams with his usual intensity. Raven was working on the last of the eggs.

Raven was wearing gray sweats; there was a towel around her neck. Hank had a pair of glasses on his head, and five different goggles hanging off his left fore-arm. He didn't look up. The cereal boxes were all out; the students had already come and gone.

"Have some sausages," Raven said, moving a stool out of the way so he could sit at the table. "Wow, you look like shit."

"Good morning to you too." Charles peered at a fork, decided it wasn't too dirty, and speared a sausage link. "Do we have any tea left?"

"No." Raven looked entirely too cheerful. "We have coffee."

"Juice?"

"No juice. No milk, either."

"Then," Charles said, "I would like some water, please."

Raven grinned as she stood. "You shouldn't waste good coffee, Charles."

"There's no such thing as good coffee," Charles said to her back.

There was a truly alarming pile of dishes in the sink. Raven considered them, shrugged, and poured the water into one of Mother's antique tea cups.

"Here," she said, sliding back into her seat.

"Thanks, love. By the way--"

"Oh, Erik's outside," Raven said, and then noticed his expression. "What? Are you two still fighting?"

"We're not," Charles said, "fighting."

Raven nodded, very slowly. "Right."

"I just don't see why he won't take a more active role in guiding our students."

"Maybe he just doesn't want to? Stop pushing it, Charles." Raven chased the last of her eggs with her spoon. "I'm going back to the weight room."

She left, taking a jug of water with her.

"But he'd be good at it, I thought," Charles said to her empty chair. Hank shifted, cleared his throat: in his new form the sound seemed closer to a growl.

"Oh. Good morning, professor," he said, sounding surprised.

Charles smiled at him. "Good morning, Hank."

Hank looked at a goggle, frowned. He made a note.

-

Charles thought he might join Erik outside. Then he would reach the end of the hallway and think, no, he might not. Except, halfway to his study, he'd change his mind again. The indecision was giving him a mild headache, as well as aching arms. Alex finally popped his head out of a door.

"Prof?" he asked. Charles, unfortunately, answered automatically to the nickname now. _Thank you, Raven._

"What is it?" he asked.

Alex wanted to ask why he kept going back and forth in the hallway. "Could you come check the blackboard?" he asked instead.

Charles wheeled himself into the room. Once, it was a guest bedroom; it was now a classroom. The desks at the front had been pushed back to give Alex room to work.

Scott was on the floor, wearing his usual blindfold. He was organizing a pile of nails. The toolbox next to him had once been Kurt's. He raised his head and guessed, "Professor X?"

"Hello, Scott."

"Can you tell Alex the blackboard isn't straight?" Scott asked.

"How can you tell? You can't even see!"

"It _is_ a bit crooked," Charles cut in, wincing at Scott's pulse of hurt and indignation.

"It's not," Alex said, avoiding Charles' reproachful gaze.

"Just a bit."

"It's really not, Prof." Alex frowned.

Charles opened his mouth to answer--stopped. He turned slightly, looking behind him. Erik was wearing a sweat-stained white shirt and a slight smile. He was looking at Charles, not at the board, as he said, "It's more than a bit crooked, actually."

Alex's frown deepened. "Just fix it, please, Alex," Charles sighed, and turned his wheelchair the rest of the way. "So? What do you think?"

Erik obligingly glanced around. He didn't look impressed. "It's a classroom."

"It's a start. Next we need more students. And," Charles added, "more teachers."

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Very subtle."

"A school is going to eventually need a full teaching staff."

"Eventually," Erik agreed. He looked at Scott; his scowl was more thunderous than Alex's. Then he left. When Charles glanced back, Alex was holding up the power drill. "Shit," he said, "are you two still fighting?"

-

Lunch was Campbell's soup and sandwiches, a collaborative work between Sean and Raven. They all crowded the living room, except for Hank, who probably hadn't noticed it was time to eat.

The TV was off during mealtimes. Today they were eating off plates from the Victorian era.

Erik sat facing the exit; Charles, after a moment of hesitation, positioned himself by Erik's chair. Sometimes, their elbows brushed. Scott was on the floor, his plate on the coffee table. Ororo was balancing hers on her knee; Jean's was balanced a few inches _above_ her knee, and wobbled slightly every time she was distracted.

Raven raised her head and said, "Oh, Scott, Hank wants you in the lab after lunch."

Scott said, "Okay," and carefully reached for another sandwich.

"What for?" Alex asked, nudging the sandwich closer to his brother. Scott frowned suspiciously but picked it up.

Raven raised and lowered a shoulder. "What else? More testing."

 _Can we watch?_ Jean asked as she chewed.

 _Yes, but--_

"Could you mind the children in the lab?" Charles asked Erik.

"No," Erik said.

"I'll be there anyway," Alex said after a moment, and Charles sighed.

-

It was nearing evening. Charles was in the study, going over their curriculum, when Erik found him.

Without looking up he said, "Are we talking now, then?"

There was a pause. And then Erik said, "I brought tea."

"Well, in that case." Charles generously spared a smile. "You may sit."

Erik did. He even poured the tea. Charles murmured a "thank you" and took a sip: it was too hot, still, but refreshing, and he could feel it warming his insides.

When he looked up Erik was watching him, eyes solemn. He said, "I'm not good with children, Charles."

"Well, yes, but you don't even _try_."

"And I'm not a teacher."

"Everyone's a teacher," Charles replied, tone light.

Erik didn't even smile. "You're not going to convince me with platitudes."

"That suggests you want to be convinced."

"I don't," Erik said.

"I'm not asking you to stand in front of a class--well, of our single classroom--and lecture. Unless," Charles amended, "you want to. It's simply that you have a talent for pushing people, for telling them what they need to hear, and I don't see why you're so reluctant to use it."

"I identify weaknesses." Erik's tone was flat.

"A good thing," Charles said. "You helped Raven. Why not Ororo, or Scott, or Jean?"

Erik's expression shifted. He opened his mouth to speak, surface thoughts as murky as swampwater--

\--and terror gutted through Charles. His fingers froze. Nausea stole his vision. He heard--voices--a scream--and then a heavy, racketing _boom_ he felt through his stomach.

A blink.

He was back in the study. Erik's face was a bare inch away. Charles could see each individual hair of his eyebrows, the fine wrinkles on his skin. His exhalations were irregular gusts of air against Charles' lips.

He was speaking. No, he was repeating Charles' name.

"I spilled my tea," Charles said, and then: "Something's wrong with Scott. He's in the lab. He's"-- _absolutely terrified_ \--"frightened."

Erik nodded, curt, and abruptly left. Charles righted his teacup. His hands were shaking, and there was a lead ball in his stomach. His temples ached with a faint, lancing pain.

Scott. Charles put his hands on the rims and followed Erik's path, through the door, down the hallway--

\--and stopped, hard, at the edge of the stairs. Of course. Hank's lab was in the highest damn floor of the mansion.

Frustration, hot and too-familiar, burned through him. For a moment Charles could only hate the stairs, his chair, his legs, _himself_ , and then he breathed in, in, in for three counts, and out for five. He brought two fingers to his temple, closed his eyes, and gently pushed.

In Cuba, Sean's mind had been all focus as he slid through the water; now it was a jumbled mix of panic and worry.

He was looking at the sky. No, he was looking at the sky through a hole in the ceiling. It was five feet wide at its largest point, the edges perfectly straight. Sean's eyes jumped to another jagged, black line that cut through to the windows the windows. The glass, still hanging in its frame, had actually rippled.

A high, wheezing sound. Suddenly Sean was looking at Scott, curled up on the floor. He was trembling. His mind was an impenetrable shock of white.

Alex was kneeling next to his brother, speaking urgently.

Very distantly, Sean was aware of being wet. Ororo was _very_ upset.

Erik stepped forward, but not towards Scott. "Jean," he said. "Put Hank's things down."

Charles had a moment to register all the objects in the air before the crates and boxes in the rooms fell with uneven _thumps_. Various lab equipment gently touched down onto the table. A microscope missed and crashed against the floor.

Scott flinched. Jean whispered, "Sorry," and buried her face against Sean's shirt.

"Ororo," Erik said.

For the first fifteen seconds, nothing happened. And then the rain lightened, becoming a light, misty drizzle. Erik said, "Good," and went to Scott.

Alex had a tentative hand on his shoulder. He looked lost.

"Scott," Erik said. "What happened?"

Alex opened his mouth. Erik shook his head sharply. "What happened?" he repeated.

Scott's mind pulsed. The shock faded, until Scott, still curled into himself, could whisper: "I opened my eyes."

"And?"

"I hit the wall."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"No," Alex said immediately.

"Was anyone hurt, Scott?"

Scott sobbed, once, and then: "No."

Erik glanced around, until he saw the blindfold discarded on the floor. He picked it up, checked that it was reasonably dry, and then passed it around Scott's head and tied it.

He said, "Get up, Scott."

An arm uncurled; Scott pushed himself to his knees. He raised his head last, shoulders hunched protectively.

Voice pitched louder, Erik said, "We'll be down in a minute, Charles."

 _I'll be in Scott's room,_ Charles replied. He dropped his fingers.

-

Alex carried Scott straight to bed. A mental nudge ensured he dropped off quickly. Alex pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. "How is he?"

Charles took a quick look. "Emotionally exhausted. And still a little scared."

"Yeah. I know how that feels." Alex leaned back, not even looking when the door opened.

"Hank," Charles said, putting on a reassuring smile.

"Um. Hi." Hank shifted his weight. The floorboards creaked under him. "I came to apologize. It was just--I was sure I had it." Hank's voice was a deep rumble.

"I'm sure Scott will accept your apology." Ignoring Hank's sceptical stare, Charles added: "Though might I suggest doing future testing in the bunker."

Hank looked down at his feet, which were kneading the carpet.

"Why don't you come in?" Charles said.

It took five steps for Hank to clear the room. He sat gingerly on the floor by Scott's bed. His hands, curled into fists, he put in his lap.

Without opening his eyes, Alex said, "Stop looking so worried, bozo."

Hank relaxed, though only fractionally. Charles put a hand on his shoulder as he left the room.

-

Erik was in Charles' bedroom. He looked unexpectedly shaken. He'd helped himself to the scotch.

"You don't have to be so afraid of dealing with children, you know," Charles said. "You're actually quite good at it. As you just proved."

"I'm not afraid," Erik said. Charles quirked an eyebrow. After a moment Erik snorted, very lightly, and faced the window.

"I've never been that young," Erik said. "And I'm not afraid of my own power." And then: "Not usually."

Charles watched the jump of Erik's throat as he drained his glass. He didn't move for more; Erik had always been better at controlling his alcohol intake than Charles.

"That didn't stop you from getting through to Scott. And Ororo," he added, "and Jean."

"No. It didn't." Erik strode to Charles, bent down. He kissed Charles' eyelid; his lips were soft. He kissed the other.

"This means we're not fighting anymore, right?"

Erik frowned, eyebrows forming deep creases. "We were fighting?"

Charles smiled, touched their foreheads together. "I suppose not."


End file.
